Fantasy Embers of Resolve

[Darkbloom]

The forest was alive with chaos—shouts of men, the clang of steel, and the crackle of fire. Lightbloom pressed himself against a tree trunk, his heart pounding as he peered into the clearing ahead. The scene was grim.

A massive figure lay bound, its limbs wrapped in heavy chains and its wings pinned to the earth with crude iron stakes. Surrounding it were hunters, their weapons glinting cruelly in the firelight. The creature thrashed weakly, letting out a low growl that reverberated through the clearing.

Lightbloom gripped his staff tightly, his resolve hardening. The raw magic emanating from the creature was ancient, unyielding—a reminder of a time before men and elves shaped the world. To see such a being restrained and brutalized was an affront to all he held sacred.

One of the hunters, a burly man with a scarred face, raised a jagged blade high. “Hold it still!” he barked to the others.

Lightbloom stepped forward before the blade could fall. A radiant burst of light erupted from his staff, throwing the hunters into disarray.

“Release it!” Lightbloom commanded, his voice echoing through the clearing. “Or you’ll face me.”

The scarred hunter turned, his eyes narrowing. “An elf? What’s this, then? Some hero come to save the day?” He sneered, gesturing to his comrades. “Take him!”

Two hunters lunged toward Lightbloom, weapons raised. With a fluid motion, he spun his staff, unleashing a blinding arc of light that forced them back. Vines erupted from the earth at his command, coiling around their legs and dragging them down.

The scarred hunter growled in frustration. “Kill him already!”

Another hunter raised a crossbow and fired. Lightbloom deflected the bolt with a shimmering shield, stepping closer to the chained creature. “You’ve lost,” he said, his voice firm. “Leave now, and I’ll let you live.”

“You think you can stop all of us?” the scarred man snarled, though the fear in his voice betrayed him.

Lightbloom answered with a wave of magic, the ground beneath the hunters erupting in radiant bursts that sent them scattering. Panic took hold, and the remaining men began to retreat, dragging their injured comrades into the shadows of the forest.

When the last of them had vanished, Lightbloom turned to the bound creature. He approached slowly, his magic softening the chains until they fell away. His every movement was careful, deliberate.

“You’re free now,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if the creature understood him. His focus shifted to its wounds, and he knelt beside it, his hands glowing faintly as he began to heal what he could.

For now, his mission was clear—restoration, not words.

Weaversong

 

[Weaversong]

The dragon's eyes widened as his wounds were healed. Fymae stood and shook himself, the feeling of freedom spreading over his body. He looked down his liberator.
"Thank you, kind...elf?" Fymae looked at the liberator up and down. There was more to him that met the eye.
(Sorry for the short reply, I promise my other ones will be much longer)

 

[Darkbloom]

Lightbloom straightened, brushing ash from his hands as his magic faded. He met the dragon's gaze with calm resolve, though his heart still raced from the encounter with the hunters.

"You’re welcome," he said, his voice steady but kind. "And yes, I am an elf—Lightbloom." He rested his staff lightly on the ground, tilting his head to regard the massive creature before him.

For a moment, he hesitated, sensing the weight behind the dragon’s scrutiny. The way Fymae examined him, as though searching for something hidden, made him feel strangely exposed. Still, Lightbloom didn’t shy away.

“I couldn’t stand by and let them do this to you. No creature, no matter how strong, deserves to be bound and broken like that." His tone softened as he added, "Are you... able to fly? Or do you need more time to reco
ver?"

 

[Weaversong]

Fymae flapped his great wings to try them out.
One of them was sore from the ropes, but other than that he felt great. He looked down at the elf, Lightbloom.
“I’m fine. I am forever in your debt. Are you headed to the Sage’s Festival? I could fly you there if you want.”
Lightbloom’s expression told him that he had no idea what he was talking about. Fymae chuckled. He must be foreign.
“You must have heard of the Great Sorcerer, Sileel. Well, he is hosting a festival full of the most popular games. I’m taking my bit into the arena and racing as well. The winner of the games gets their heart’s desire.”

 

[Darkbloom]

Lightbloom’s brows furrowed slightly as he processed Fymae’s words. The Sage’s Festival? The name meant nothing to him, though the mention of a “Great Sorcerer” and a prize as grand as one’s heart’s desire piqued his interest.

“I can’t say I’ve heard of it,” Lightbloom admitted, his tone curious. “I’m not exactly from around here, and my path has... rarely led me to places of celebration.”

He glanced at Fymae’s wings, still mindful of the dragon’s earlier injuries. The offer of flight was tempting, especially if this festival held potential answers or allies for his quest. But he hesitated. His journey to find Darkbloom was personal and fraught with peril—he wasn’t sure how an event like this would fit into his mission.

Still, the idea lingered. He looked up at Fymae, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t say no to the company of someone who owes me a favor.” His smile grew wry. “And besides, racing dragons sounds like something worth seeing.”

He straightened his posture, his grip on his staff firm. “Lead the way. Perhaps this Sage’s Festival will hold more than just entertainment.”

 

[Weaversong]

Fymae gave him a nod and lowered his head for the elf to climb aboard. Lightbloom leapt on with grace and the black and white dragon took off for the festival.
"So," he looked straight ahead, his pupils dilated in the glowing sunset, "What are you doing far from your home?"

 

[Darkbloom]

The wind rushed past Lightbloom as he adjusted his position on Fymae’s back, his grip firm yet respectful of the dragon’s movements. He let the question hang in the air for a moment, watching the horizon bathed in the amber hues of the setting sun.

“I’m searching for someone,” Lightbloom said finally, his voice quiet but clear. “Someone I lost a long time ago.”

He paused, unsure how much to share. The ache in his chest stirred at the thought of Darkbloom—her face, her rage, the ashes she’d left in her wake. Lightbloom’s fingers tightened slightly around his staff.

“It’s… complicated,” he admitted, his tone tinged with both sorrow and determination. “I made mistakes, and I intend to make them right. Even if it takes everything I have.”

He glanced toward Fymae’s head, curiosity flickering through his expression. “And you? What draws you to the Sage’s Festival? Surely a dragon like you doesn’t need to prove himself in games.”

 

[Weaversong]

Fymae laughed. “You are right, I don’t. But just like you, I have secrets of my own. Why don’t you just ask the Great Wizard to give you the location of this missing person? We can share the wish.”

 

[Darkbloom]

Lightbloom let out a soft chuckle, though it was devoid of humor. “If only it were that simple,” he said, his voice carrying a tinge of weariness.

He glanced at the horizon, the glowing sun casting long shadows across the landscape below. “This missing person… she’s not just lost. She’s running, hiding—and not without reason. Even if the Great Wizard could point me in the right direction, it wouldn’t change the fact that I have to face her myself.”

His tone grew quieter, introspective. “I doubt any wish could mend the damage I’ve done or the scars she bears. That’s something I’ll have to earn… if she even lets me try.”

He shifted slightly, gripping Fymae’s scales to steady himself as they soared higher. “But I appreciate the offer, Fymae. You didn’t have to help me, let alone suggest we share something as grand as a wish. It means more than you know.”

Lightbloom paused, then glanced toward the dragon’s massive form. “And as for your secrets… I won’t pry. But maybe, when the time’s right, you’ll trust me enough to share
them.”

 

[Weaversong]

Fymae glanced up at the elf. He felt a tinge of guilt for his plan, but he couldn’t back out now. He instead smiled down at the busy streets below.
“Here we are!” He exclaimed in a sing-song voice, “The Festival. It’s huge, yes? All kinds of creatures, big and small.”
Fymae gracefully landed on a dock and let the elf down. Lightbloom looked weary. Perfect. Fymae led him to an inn.
“We can rest here, if you want.” He said, “You can continue the search tomorrow. I’ll be in the stables.”

 

[Darkbloom]

Lightbloom slid off Fymae’s back with practiced grace, though the weight of exhaustion was clear in his movements. His sharp gaze scanned the festival streets, taking in the vibrant chaos—the laughter, the music, the myriad of creatures mingling beneath the glow of hanging lanterns.

“It’s certainly... something,” Lightbloom said softly, his tone caught between wonder and weariness. His mind, however, was elsewhere, still tethered to his search and the purpose that drove him forward.

He followed Fymae to the inn, glancing briefly at the dragon before stepping inside. “You’ve done more than enough for me today,” Lightbloom said, offering a small, tired smile. “Rest well, Fymae. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The inn’s warmth enveloped him as he entered, but it did little to soothe his troubled thoughts. Even as he climbed the stairs to his room, his focus remained on the road ahead—and the sister he had to
find.

 

[Weaversong]

Fymae settled down in the stables. He snorted at the smell of horse waste. It won't be like this forever, he thought. Besides, his plan was already in action. Slowly, he dozed off, the warm hay surrounding his massive body.

The next day, he looked through the window of the inn, waiting to see Lightbloom to come down the stairs. He hoped the crowd was rowdy. The dwarves and the humans that usually took part in the drinking mistreated elves, especially male elves, for they always make fun of the way they move. Elves of both genders moved with purpose and grace, dwarves and humans moved with heavy, warrior-like steps. No doubt they would not treat Lightbloom any different.

 

[Darkbloom]

The next morning, Lightbloom descended the creaky wooden stairs of the inn, his sharp ears already catching the rowdy chatter of patrons below. As he stepped into the common room, it was exactly as Fymae had predicted: a raucous gathering of dwarves and humans, most nursing tankards of ale despite the early hour.

It didn’t take long for the eyes of a group of drunken dwarves to land on him. One particularly stout figure with a tangled red beard jabbed his friend with an elbow and barked out a laugh.

“Oi! Look at this one, lads,” the dwarf said, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Walkin’ all stiff and fancy, like he’s dancin’ on air! You lost, elf? Or just lookin’ to get stepped on?”

The group erupted in laughter, and a human near the bar joined in, waving his drink. “Careful! Don’t break a nail on your way out!”

Lightbloom paused mid-step, his calm gaze sweeping over the group. Their mocking tones didn’t bother him—he’d dealt with this sort of behavior before. Still, he could see the puffed chests, the deliberate goading. They were looking for a fight, or at least an excuse to vent their hangovers on an easy target.

With a faint sigh, he reached for the staff strapped to his back, drawing it slowly. The room grew quieter as the laughter turned to murmurs. Lightbloom raised one hand, a soft golden glow forming at his fingertips.

“Perhaps you’d all feel better,” he said evenly, “if you were no longer burdened by the effects of last night’s indulgence.”

Before anyone could respond, the golden light expanded in a gentle wave, passing over the dwarves, the humans, and anyone else in the room. Almost immediately, their rosy cheeks faded, their sluggish movements became sharper, and the thick fog of alcohol lifted from their minds.

The once-rowdy dwarf blinked in confusion, rubbing his forehead. “What in the name of the stone…” He looked at his empty tankard with wide eyes. “I feel... sober.”

Lightbloom gave them a small, almost imperceptible smile. “You’re welcome.”

Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door, leaving the now-silent group to process what had just happened. As he stepped into the morning sunlight, he caught sight of Fymae watching from the stable window. He gave the dragon a slight nod and said, “Shall
we be on our way?”

 

[Weaversong]

“Interesting staff you got there,” Fymae commented, “If you were to take part of the games, you would no doubt win.”
Fymae paused in thought, his scales bristling as he foraged a lie that could change his path forever.
“You know, that Wish can give you whatever you want. If we win it together, I can help you find your sister. We can make sure nothing gets in our way of finding her. Besides, a dragon can’t win it alone, he must have a rider.”

 

[Darkbloom]

Lightbloom tightened his grip on his staff, his sharp gaze lingering on Fymae. The dragon’s words were smooth, deliberate—too deliberate.

“A wish that grants anything…” he murmured, weighing the words carefully. “It’s a dangerous thing to chase.”

He studied Fymae’s expression, watching the way his scales bristled ever so slightly. There was something unspoken in his offer, something carefully measured. But Lightbloom had spent enough time among silver-tongued beings to know when someone wanted something from him.

Still, the thought of finding his sister—of having the means to locate her without years of searching in the dark—was not something he could easily dismiss.

“You say that as if you already know what I’ll choose,” Lightbloom finally said, his voice even. “But I don’t enter pacts lightly, Fymae. If I agree, I will see it through to the end. No deception, no hidden motives—just a partnership built on trust.”

He took a slow breath, the weight of his own words settling over him. Then, he gave a faint, knowing smile.

“So tell me, Fymae. Can you give me that?”

 

[Weaversong]

“Of course,” Said Fymae without hesitation. He gestured towards The Square. “The Festival begins.”
The bustling of the people in the marketplaces went silent. A griffin flew overhead, a rider sitting upon his back. The creature landed on a tall, stone platform. The rider swung himself off with grace and looked down at the hushed crowd.
He was a tall man with a long beard. His eyes glistened with excitement. But his face told the story of many past battles.
“Greetings, dwarves...humans...elves...and other creatures.” He called. “Today the Festival begins! We will begin with the races. Each rider with his creature, report to the Racer’s Guild so that you may participate.”
Fymae grinned with excitment. “Come, Lightbloom. This way.”

 

[Darkbloom]

Lightbloom watched the griffin and its rider with quiet curiosity, but his thoughts lingered on Fymae’s quick response.

Of course. The dragon hadn’t even paused to consider the weight of the promise.

His grip tightened briefly on his staff before he exhaled, pushing the doubt aside for now. He was here, and the festival had begun.

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Fymae’s excitement was practically infectious. The dragon’s grin was wide, his energy eager as he beckoned Lightbloom toward the Racer’s Guild.

The elf hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward. “Let’s see if this festival is worth all the fanfare.”

His cloak swayed behind him as he followed Fymae, weaving through the bustling streets toward whatever awaited them next.